IN 


OLD  SCHOOL  DAYS 


WILL  CARLETON 

ILLUSTRATED   BY 
J.  MONTGOMERY  FLAGG 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 

III 


00022094528 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


From  the  Library  of 
GERTRUDE  WEIL 

1879-1971 


IN 
OLD  SCHOOL  DAYS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/inoldschooldaysOOcarl 


_..-,..- 


His  world  was  just  in  the  seat  ahead. 


IN  OLD  SCHOOL  DAYS 


BY 

WILL  CARLETON 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
JAMES   MONTGOMERY  FLAGG 


NEW  YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK 

Published  October,  1907 


^4//  Rights  Reserved 


List  of  Illustrations 

Page 

His  world  was  just  in  the  seat  ahead. — Frontispiece 

Whose  soul  crept  up  in  her  shapely  hand.  6 

0  Sweet  glad  voice  in  the  star-flecked  gown !  1  2 
"  But  hardly  would  touch  my  proffered  arm."  24 

1  learned  that  the  soldier  in  far  Algiers, 

Had  not  the  dearth  of  a  schoolgirl's  tears.  28 

"Ah,  maid  with  the  blood-red  branch  of  bloom!"  38 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 


When  even  a  child,  you  had  the  art 

To  stir  to  its  depths  the  schoolboy  heart!  40 

Of  rustle  of  paper  and  rasp  cf  pen.  44 

He  is  simply  doing  the  best  he  can.  58 

"Now  will  you  be  good?     Director  has  come."  60 

And  words  from  district  fathers  tell 

How  "things  would  appear  to  be  going  well."  72 

Crowned  in  her  master's  delighted  gaze.  74 


IN 
OLD  SCHOOL  DAYS 


f\   star-strown  skies  of  the  old  school  clays! 
^^^   Creep  into  the  Twentieth  Century's  gaze, 
Like  some  dear  dreamily  treasured  rhymes, 
And  give  us  a  glimpse  of  quaint  old  times, 


When  one  "academy,"  long  and  wide, 
Was  full  of  classes  unclassified; 
All  in  one  rude  leviathan  room, 
Hacked  out  of  the  forest's  hardened  bloom. 


'Twas  there  the  books  in  their  sheets  of  white, 
Slept  chill  and  still  through  the  lonely  night; 
'Twas  there  those  heralds  of  progress  lay, 
Half-used  and  abused  through  the  livelong  day. 


O  dull-hued  benches,  with  bodies  unclad 

In  paint  or  varnish — what  treasures  you  had! 

At  one  of  you  sat  the  little  maid 

Whose  brown  eyes  lurked  in  her  blonde  hair's  shade; 

Whose  soul  crept  up  in  her  shapely  hand, 

At  things  that  she  could  not  understand. 


,■} 


.!    i      "f_-V- 


Whose  soul  crept  up  in  her  shapely  hand. 


O  little  girl  with  the  hair  so  soft, 
O  little  girl  with  the  yearning  eyes 

And  rosebud  mouth!    I  have  prayed  full  oft 
You  might  grow  happy  as  you  grew  wise! 


How  little  you  knew  what  later  you  knew, 
Before  the  studies  of  life  were  through! 
How  many  the  tasks  that  would  yet  remain 
To  puzzle  your  heart,  as  well  as  brain! 


"School's  called!"  for  the  hand-bell's  shrilling  shout 

Is  sending  abroad  its  jerky  din; 
And  soon  from  the  regions  all  about, 

The  rough-clad  "scholars"  come  rambling  in 


(What  had  not  courted  the  stove's  hearth-shine, 
And  lingered  around  till  the  stroke  of  nine, 
Or  lurked  outside,  with  that  spirit  of  war 
That  good  souls  foster  while  they  abhor, 
And  battled  each  other  to  and  fro, 
With  bullets  and  cannon  balls  of  snow). 


They  stamp  white  dust  from  their  leathern  heels, 
They  stow  on  the  shelves  their  basket-meals; 
Then  all  are  waiting,  noisily  still, 
The  clank  of  the  educational  mill. 


Perchance  if  the  Teacher  loves  The  Book 
(As  'tis  to  be  hoped  he  may)  there  rise 

Prayer,  reading  and  hymn,  which  humbly  look, 
And  surely  should  reach,  to  the  pure  good  skies. 


O  Sweet  glad  voice  in  the  star-flecked  gown! 


0  sweet  glad  voice  in  the  star-flecked  gown! 

1  have  heard  the  cantatrice'  tones  creep  down, 
Acoustic  jewels  drifting  along 

Like  crumbs  from  the  angels'  tables  of  song; 


And  she  drew  a  fortune  (or  every  note, 
And  she  was  a  goddess — to  the  view: 

But  rally  that  school,  and  I'll  get  a  vote 
That  you  were  the  thrillinger  of  the  two! 


This  university-in-a-room, 
Has  freshman  students  with  childhood-bloom, 
Who  con  the  letters  that  long  have  clung 
Together  in  words  of  the  English  tongue 


They  toddle  down,  with  worry  and  fret, 
The  cellar-stairs  of  the  alphabet; 
Their  travel  is  trapped  by  many  cares: 
Full  oft  they  stick  on  the  jagged  stairs 
That  run  through  every  fancy  and  use, 
From  Shakespeare-splendors  to  Mother  Goose. 


Right  loud  is  their  tone  of  triumph  heard, 
When,  joining  two  letters,  they  coin  a  word! 
And  loud  does  the  paean  ring,  indeed, 
That  crowns  the  announcement,  "We  can  read!" 


And  "We  go  up,"  and  "In  we  go", 
<\nd  "He  is  out",  and  "It  is  so", 
And  "Ah,  he  was",  and  "Oh,  ho  ho", 
Are  primitive  words:    but  we  may  call 
Them  not  so  different,  after  all, 


From  longer  ones  that  the  grown  folk  use 
In  telling  their  ancient  and  modern  news. 
(How  much  is  printed,  of  good  or  ill, 
But  those  same  words  are  its  essence,  still?) 


Then  older  reading-classes  must  find 
And  tell  Short  Stories  of  how  mankind 
Deserved  alternately  praise  and  scorn, 
Long  ere  Columbian  tribes  were  born. 


Of  battle-banners  in  blood  unfurled, 
And  gospels  preached  to  a  sinful  world; 
Of  beautiful  deeds  in  kindness  done, 
And  cruelty  such  as  brutes  would  shun; 


Of  poverty  starved  in  pangs  untold, 


And  banquets  eaten  on  plates  of  gold; 

Of  lyrics  of  love  in  sweetness  sung, 

And  fierce  philippics  that  bite  the  tongue; 


Humility  lifting  Heaven's  own  latch, 
And  pride  just  Satan  himself  could  match; 
Of  heroes  praying  for  Joshua's  sun, 
And  cowards  glad  when  the  fight  was  done; 
Of  birth-born  struggles  and  dying  breaths, 
Of  clans'  uprisings  and  nations'  deaths: 


What  was  there  the  human  race  concerned, 
That  properly  under  an  eye  could  pass, 

Some  something  of  which  could  not  be  learned 
Somehow  and  somewhere  in  the  reading-class? 


"  But  hardly  would  touch  my  proffered  arm." 


Not  only  lessons  of  brain  were  conned, 
But  those  in  the  heart  and  soul  beyond. 
Ah  little  dame  with  the  haughty  air, 

How  chary  you  were  of  every  charm! 
You  let  me  walk  with  you  here  and  there, 

But  hardly  would  touch  my  proffered  arm. 


I  said,  "Is  it  worth  the  daily  price, 

To  win  a  beautiful  toy  of  ice, 

A  pretty  freak  of  the  frost-king's  art, 

A  brain  and  a  soul  with  famine  of  heart?" 


How  little  I  knew  that  you  lay  and  cried 

Yourself  to  sleep,  when  you  just  had  learned 

That  little  Casabianca  died, 

While  even  the  air  about  him  burned, 


Because  he  was  loyal,  sure  and  game, 
And  trusted  the  father  that  never  came!.  . 
Not  till  together  through  flower  and  vine 
We  gazed  at  Bingen  upon  the  Rhine, 
I  learned  that  the  soldier  in  far  Algiers, 
Had  not  the  dearth  of  a  schoolgirl's  tears! 


: 


I  learned  that  the  soldier  in  far  Algiers, 
Had  not  the  dearth  of  a  schoolgirl's  tears. 


Gray  walls  rougn-plastered  were  yet  clad  o'er 
With  maps  that  numbered  the  half  a  score; 
And  they  for  our  little  world  were  guide 
And  friend,  in  the  far-off  world  outside. 


Long  rivers  were  through  rich  valleys  strung, 

And  opulent  cities  hung  and  clung 

As  flies  to  this  richly  tinted  wall, 

Like  Babylons  fearing  they  soon  might  fall; 

Rough  lakes  and  oceans  were  tossed  in  view, 

And  mountains  slumbered  in  beds  of  blue. 


Once,  just  in  the  dream  of  a  summer  day, 

A  boy  sat  musing  a  minute  away 

And  stared  at  the  world,  with  eyes  thought-dim, 

That  hung  on  the  wall,  and  beckoned  him, 

This  lad  who  thirsted  to  win  a  name, 

To  scenes  of  luxury,  pride  and  fame. 


But  he  turned  his  back  to  the  chart,  instead: 
His  world  was  just  on  the  seat  ahead, 
With  cheeks  that  mocked  at  the  roses'  bloom, 
And  slim  feet  sandalled  with  leaf-perfume. 


The  heart  of  the  dreamer  is  now  appalled: 
The  "Class  in  Arithmetic!"  is  called! 
The  multiplication-table  song 
Is  chanted  in  accents  loud  and  long, 
And  fierce  assertions  loud  justified, 
That  never  on  earth  could  be  denied. 


Or     up  to  the  board"  young  victims  walk, 
And  trace  the  troubles  of  life  in  chalk: 
And  dollars  and  cents,  and  pounds  and  pence, 
And  buyings  and  sellings  in  sums  immense, 
Are  traced  in  elephantine  affairs, 
As  if  the  pupils  were  millionaires. 


There's  not  a  figure  in  all  the  ten, 
But  is  made  to  lie,  again  and  again, 
While  poor  old     1      'neath  hammers  of  fate, 
Is  shattered  to  fractions  small  and  great. 


With  honest  effort  and  covert  guilt, 

From  roof  to  cellar  the  "sums"  are  built; 

And  faces  have  all  a  delighted  look, 

If  but  their  "answers"  confirm  the  book, 

No  odds  with  what  efforts  strained  and  feigned, 

Those  final  figures  have  been  obtained. 


Sometimes  there  are  figures  upon  the  sly, 
Not  meant  for  the  teacher's  watchful  eye: 
Cartoons  and  effigies  may  appear 
That  soon  will  appeal  to  the  lengthened  ear. 


And  e'en  in  the  days  when  his  art  is  sold, 
And  publishers  band  his  pencil  with  gold, 
Association  may  cross  the  track, 
And  cause  our  artist  to  rub  his  back 
At  thought  of  a  supplementary  stroke 
From  the  master  himself,  to  shift  the  joke. 


t  y  *  '       7 


'Ah,  maid  with  the  blood-red  branch  of  bloom !" 


And  there  was  the  girl  with  fingers  of  white, 
Who  never  could  make  the  "sums"  come  right, 
But  who  in  the  grasses  could  always  see 
Most  four-leaved  clovers,  instead  of  three. 


Ah  maid  with  the  blood-red  branch  of  bloom! 
Your  beauty  lighted  the  humble  room, 
As  when  to  the  toiling  miner's  sight 
A  diamond  floods  the  cave  with  light. 


„H'  >i  "     fa  y-  ■   '         '  I  A65 


When  even  a  child,  you  had  the  art 
To  stir  to  its  depths  the  schoolboy  heart! 


When  even  a  child,  you  had  the  art 
To  stir  to  its  depths  the  schoolboy  heart! 
You  knew  not  when  and  you  knew  not  how, 
But  laurels  waited  your  broad  white  brow. 


1  saw  you  stand  in  the  limelight's  glare, 
The  Chief  of  the  Nation  welcomed  you, 

And  princes  of  brain  and  heart  were  there, 
And  homage  given  that  well  was  due: 


Ben  Hur's  great  wizard  from  out  the  West 
Became  your  honored  and  honoring  guest; 
The  king  of  a  realm  in  the  sultry  East 
Proclaimed  you  fairest  of  all  his  feast; 


But  never  you  looked  more  queenly  and  bright 
Than  robed  in  your  schoolgirl  gown  of  white, 
Still  dreading  the  mathematic  hour, 
While  quaffing  the  breath  of  a  God-made  flower! 


JMji 


Of  rustle  of  paper  and  rasp  of  pen. 


Clear  decks  for  writing! — is  born  a  sound 
Of  rustle  of  paper  and  rasp  of  pen; 

Precepts  that  are  more  or  less  profound, 
Are  written  and  written  and  written  again. 


And  Honesty  stated  once  more  we  see 
With  best  of  policies  in  accord, 

And  Perseverance  is  claimed  to  be, 
We  think  absurdly,  its  own  reward. 


I 


II 


'When  money  is  lost  then  nothing  is  lost" 

We  read  and  write  it — and  disbelieve: — 
We  think  of  the  silver  dime  that  cost 

The  search  of  an  hour,  and  a  month  to  grieve. 


"When  health  is  lost,  then  something  is  lost", — 
We  read  and  write  and  we  know  'tis  true: 

On  beds  of  woe  we  have  rolled  and  tossed, 
With  medicine-bottles  in  painful  view. 


"When  character's  lost,  then  all  is  lost," — 
We  read  and  write,  and  the  thought  is  new: 

We  wonder  and  wonder,  with  hands  close-crossed: 
But  later  we  know  that  the  copy  was  true. 


Scrawl  on,  my  boy!    you  are  twining  strands 
To  clasp  you  with  other  hands  and  lands; 
Perhaps  the  successors  of  this  steel  pen 
May  prick  to  the  hearts  of  women  and  men. 


Its  nibs  may  not  work  together  right, 

Your  inkstand  maybe  "froze  up"  last  night, 

And  blots  on  person  and  desks  and  page 

May  throw  the  master  into  a  rage; 

But  every  station,  life  has  a  knack 

Of  reaching  at  length,  if  we  keep  the  track. 


O  Lindley  Murray!    be  strong  and  brave, 
And  do  not  go  wriggling  within  your  grave, 
When  'mid  much  ungrammatical  din, 
The  "Class  in  Grammar"  has  started  in! 


O  authors  of  note  now  safely  dead, 
Each  keep  in  his  mildly  remembered  bed, 
With  clay-wrought  mattress  and  marble  posts: 
Send  not  to  these  youths  your  indignant  ghosts 
For  trying  to  reach  your  diction's  heart, 
And  tearing  the  woof  of  the  lines  apart! 


Nouns,  pronouns,  adjectives,  adverbs,  verbs, 

Are  plucked  from  the  garden  of  your  best  powers, 

And  strung  together  and  dried  like  herbs, 

That  once  were  hailed  as  blossoming  flowers. 


Or  when  in  the  "Speaking-pieces"  time, 
The  callowy  boy  disputes  your  rhyme, 
And  makes  your  measures  to  jolt  and  creak, 
And  mangles  your  words  in  his  nervous  cheek, 


Or  when  at  the  close  of  tempest-shocks 
Of  euphony  wrought  by  your  utmost  care, 

He  breasts  it  all  with  meekness  that  mocks, 
And  fondles  an  anti-climax  there. 


Yawn,  Patrick  Henry,  and  take  your  pills; 

It  is  but  the  way  that  the  others  do. 
Sleep  sweet,  O  lad  of  the  Grampian  Hills: 

Your  name  is  Norval — and  Dennis  too! 


But  do  not  flout  this  miniature  man: 
He  is  simply  doing  the  best  he  can, 
And  maybe  better  than  you,  O  sage, 
Could  have  carried  it  off  at  his  tender  age. 


S&h\ 


4AIUH  UtUHltmERi  TtAts, 
i  9        o       / 


He  is  simply  doing  the  best  he  can. 


Now  will  you  be  good? — Director  has  come, 
To  give  you  some  lore  where  books  are  dumb; 
He  offers  you  more  advice  sincere, 
Than  you  will  work  up  in  a  calendar  year; 


He  tells  you  how  to  be  grand  and  true, 
And  do  as  no  doubt  he  did  not  do; 
He  names  advantages  you  possess, 
And  seems  to  blame  you  that  he  had  less. 


Q       \7>  ,:  '  <k&J  $j 


'.:■■» 


"Now  will  you  be  good?     Director  has  come." 


With  homespun  oratorical  art, 

He  takes  you  all  to  his  yearning  heart. 

He  tells  you  to  build  direct  and  sure 

On  strong  foundations  that  must  endure; 

You'd  think  from  the  facts  he  loves  to  state, 

He  never  had  made  a  slip  to  date. 


Be  kind,  O  students,  nor  telegraph 
From  desk  to  desk  the  derisive  laugh: 
For  many  of  you  will  some  day  be 
In  many  matters,  the  same  as  he! 


O  old-school  days!    I  would  linger  long. 
In  fact  and  fancy  and  prose  and  song, 
Among  your  shadows  and  your  delights, 
Your  windowed  mornings  and  candled  nights! 
Such  as  spelling-bouts,  where,  wild  and  tame, 
From  other  regions  strong  rivals  came: 


From  districts  hostile  strown  all  about, 
With  mental  cartridges  loaded  in  words, 
And  maids  with  titters  like  twitters  of  birds, 

The  home-guard  spellers  to  put  to  rout. 


Soon  many  a  champion  in  the  fight 
Fell  never  to  rise  again  that  night. 
With  what  a  bitter  and  deadly  frown 
The  etymological  chiefs  went  down! 


And  maybe  before  that  frown  was  lifted, 
The  scene  of  the  battle  of  words  was  shifted, 
And  in  the  open  forgathered  foes, 
And  "blowing"  was  turned  to  business  blows. 


"Last-day-of-school!"  when  at  last  it  came, 
We  all  were  glad — and  we  all  were  sad: 

You  know  life  never  is  just  the  same 
When  anything  goes  that  once  was  had. 


Though  boulders  of  pain  the  memory-view-- 
Yet  pleasure-rivulets  filter  through; 
And  often  before  they  cease  to  grow, 
They  cover  the  rocks  'twixt  which  they  flow. 


O  glad,  sad  day!    how  many  have  heard 
That  long  significant  compound  word, 
"Last-day-o'-school",  and  have  not  met 
Some  brooding  shadows  of  vain  regret? 


A  semester,  nearly,  on  leaden  wing, 
Has  greeted  Autumn,  Winter,  and  Spring; 
But  (all  things  earthly  soon  passing  by) 
It  is  given  a  day  in  which  to  die. 


No  wide  alarum  or  grand  display 
Attends  this  long,  significant  day: 
No  "sheepskin's"  Latin,  wordily  wise, 
To  pull  the  wool  o'er  admiring  eyes; 


But  all  is  done,  in  sadness  or  mirth, 
As  if  'twere  the  last  time  on  this  earth. 
With  new  indulgence  is  heard  each'  class, 
And  schoolchild-blunders  allowed  to  pass, 
Strange  silences  running  in  and  out, 
And  pathos  lingering  all  about. 


omue  mottumi  .    '•.    :.: 
And  words  from  district  fathers  tell 
How  "things  would  appear  to  be  going  well." 


The  afternoon  may  have  bits  of  song, 

And  poems  and  essays  short  and  long, 

And  words  from  district  fathers  to  tell 

How  "things  would  appear  to  be  going  well"; 

And  once  when  the  day  had  glimmered  away 

With  only  the  half  of  an  hour  to  stay, 


The  maiden  who  some  few  years  before 
Had  raised  her  pretty  and  dimpled  hand 

At  sound  of  the  unaccustomed  lore 

She  (womanly)  yearned  to  understand. 


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Crowned  in  her  master's  delighted  gaze. 


Now  rose,  with  a  subtle  innocent  grace, 
And  love-locks  lurking  about  her  face, 
And  golden  tresses  and  silver  tongue, 

And    mid  the  applause's  thrilling  storm, 
And  the  white  gown  that  closely  clung 

So  justifiably!    to  her  form, 


With  valedictory  honors  crowned 
(Though  not  by  that  name  of  classic  sound), 
Crowned,  in  her  Master's  delighted  gaze, 
Herself  the  Queen  of  the  Old  School  Days. 


IN 

OLD  SCHOOL 
DAYS 


s— &2>. 


WILL 
CARLETON 


Earf 


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